


Tribute

by the_deep_magic



Category: Actor RPF, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Star Trek RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Angst, First Time, M/M, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 22:36:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_deep_magic/pseuds/the_deep_magic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At 18 and facing his final reaping, Chris thought he was safe. When his name is chosen and he's shipped off to the Capitol to fight in the 72nd Hunger Games, his mentor is of limited help and his fellow tribute is a 13-year-old girl... who he might have to kill to survive. His only chance is to try to gain wealthy sponsors with the help of his stylist, Zach, who becomes the only one Chris can turn to as the countdown to the Games draws closer and closer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tribute

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution to this year's rpf_big_bang. See temporalranger's awesome art [here](http://drtytrenchicons.livejournal.com/18326.html).
> 
> Thank/blame therumjournals for this – she Twitter-prompted (Twompted?) an HG prequel AU, and then beta’d for me like an awesome enabler ;o). No spoilers for The Hunger Games, and you don’t need to be familiar with the books to read this.
> 
> Warning for morbid (nonsexual) themes

It shouldn’t have happened.

Chris was pretty sure everyone whose name had ever been called had had that very same thought, but his odds were so slim.  Yes, he’d put his name in twice each year for an extra grain ration, but there were others who were desperate and unlucky enough to have their names in 24, 36, even 48 times to claim more rations for their families.

At the age of 18, he’d been passed over for six years – this was his last reaping.  He should have been safe.

As he stumbled towards the platform, he struggled to wrap his head around it.  He hadn’t even been properly nervous this year, had barely thought a thing of it, because he was supposed to be _safe_.  Why him?   He knew nothing but the life of a crab fisherman on his father’s boat, the small but sturdy _Gwynne’s Pride_.  Chris had been slinging traps and mending nets since he could walk.  He’d had his life all planned out – maybe not a glamorous or particularly prosperous one, but a _long_ one, waking up each morning to breathe the fresh sea air, hopefully with someone else growing old at his side.

Instead, he’d be fighting to be the last one alive out of 23 other teenagers, offered as “tributes” for the amusement of the Capitol in the 72nd Hunger Games.

There were Career tributes in District 4 – not as many as in One or Two, but Chris knew several boys who had boasted of training themselves for the Games.  For months, they talked of nothing but getting their chance to prove themselves and proudly represent their district against the 11 others that made up Panem.  Now, faced with the reality of the reaping, of stepping on to the train that would almost certainly take them to their deaths, they were silent.   As Chris glanced around, they wouldn’t even meet his eyes.  No one was going to volunteer to take his place.

Chris suddenly stopped feeling sorry for himself when he got a good look at the girl who had been called up just before him.  He hadn’t even been paying attention at the time, but he knew who she was.  Her name was Risa Hanley.  She was 13 years old.  It was her second reaping.  _Jesus_.

Chris looked out at the crowd, every face drenched with pity.  Even though he’d been one of those faces for the past six years, a shiver of disgust ran down his spine.  He might have had a moment of shitty luck, but he wasn’t _pitiful_.  He’d be older and bigger than most of the other tributes, and he was strong from years of throwing and hauling crab pots, his hands rough from the coarse rope.  If there was water in the arena – and there was almost always water – he’d know what to do.

It wasn’t a death sentence.  He couldn’t look at it that way.  He’d nearly been washed overboard in a dozen storms, narrowly avoided limb-threatening injuries from the heavy equipment on his father’s boat, worked through the night countless times to pull in the traps before bad weather hit.   He was tough enough to survive this.  And he could remember at least one tribute from Four winning in his lifetime.  If he could get a few wealthy sponsors, he might stand a chance.

So when District 4’s escort, an odious, self-important little man named Spengler, lifted Chris’ hand high in the air, Chris smiled.  That smile and his sea-blue eyes would go a long way towards getting sponsors.  He could charm those fuckers into giving him everything he needed.

It wasn’t until the Peacekeepers were leading them off the platform that the nausea hit him, worse than any seasickness, and he barely managed to keep his smile.

Risa had tripped over her own feet and Chris had, without thinking, caught her and righted her.  She smiled wanly up at him.

In order to survive, he would, at best, have to see her die.  At worst, he’d have to kill her himself.

&&&

Mags reminded Chris so much of his grandmother – not so much her looks, but the baffled smile on her face when she completely lost the thread of conversation but didn’t want him to know it.

It was poignant in his grandmother; it was terrifying in his mentor.

Mags wasn’t useless as a mentor – far from it.  Since Chris’ expertise was in crab fishing, he had only a rudimentary understanding of how to catch individual fish, something he’d probably have to do to feed himself while in the arena.  Mags could make a fishhook out of anything; she demonstrated this with a fork in the train’s dining car.  She also promised to show Chris how to weave a completely watertight basket – essential for carrying bait and, if it came down to it, water.

But though she was obviously capable with her hands, she seemed to have trouble getting her thoughts into words.  Every third sentence or so would wander into incoherency.  Not, Chris thought with a sinking sensation in his chest, who you’d want persuading the wealthy men and women of the Capitol to sponsor you.  No, Chris was going to have to win the people over the best he could from the stage before setting foot in the arena.

As the train rattled on towards the Capitol, he realized the confidence he’d felt on the platform earlier had waned almost completely.  He’d been told he could be charming, but working on a crab boat didn’t offer many opportunities to hone one’s social skills.  He was going to have to rely on… _Fuck_ , he was going to have to rely on his looks.

He scrubbed his hand over the poor excuse for stubble beginning to grow on his chin.  He was handsome enough for District 4, where tanned skin and scars were marks of pride and success, but he’d seen the citizens of the Capitol: skin buffed to an unnatural sheen, dyed every color of the rainbow.  Hair puffed up like cotton candy or slicked back like a helmet.  Chris ran a hand through his own light brown hair, too long now and sticking out at every angle.  He usually just tucked it under a knit cap and forgot about it.

But that’s what the stylists were for, right?  Chris could only hope they gave him someone decent.  Last year’s tributes from District 4 had been paraded through the City Circle in fishnets.  And almost nothing else.

&&&

It was a good thing Chris was used to water – he’d just been damn near bathed to death by what passed for a “shower” in the Remake Center.  But he was definitely not used to so many bubbles.  At the end of every crab season, their boat had to be hauled into drydock, flushed of saltwater, and the barnacles carefully scraped from her hull.  Chris was beginning to sympathize with the boat.

Chris sat on the padded table, which was just tall enough that his feet didn’t touch the floor – and he was by no means short.  In his thin robe, surrounded by tubes and vials and metal instruments whose purposes he couldn’t even begin to guess, he’d never felt so young or helpless.  Not even when his name had been called at the reaping.

Just as he was really starting to work himself into a state of panic, in walked a small, slender woman with flawless dark skin and lustrous silver streaks in her black hair.  So this was his stylist?  Fine, but why was she looking at him with such wide-eyed… glee?

“Oh.  My.  _God_ ,” she said.  “Zach is just going to eat you up.”

Not helpful, under the circumstances.  _So_ not helpful.

The woman turned to call over her shoulder.  “John, Rachel, get in here.  You’ve _got_ to see this.”

Chris glanced around the room to see what the “this” was, but disconcertingly, it appeared to be him.  Was he really that hideous?

When the other two got there, John gave Chris an appraising look and said, “Yep, just Zach’s type,” while Rachel clamped a hand over her mouth and turned… well, since her skin appeared to be dyed green, her cheeks flushed a deep olive.

Chris was just about to ask _Zach’s type of what?_ when the man himself walked in.  This was unmistakably Chris’ stylist.  He was clad in form-fitting black trousers that appeared to be made of denim, but gave off some type of holographic sheen that Chris had never seen before.  They wouldn’t be flattering on anyone who didn’t have those long, long legs and tight little ass that Chris couldn’t help but notice – though he was pretty sure the pants were designed to draw attention to it.  Zach’s shirt was such a dark purple it was nearly black itself, and it did nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders.  But it was Zach’s eyes that got and held Chris’ attention – even if they hadn’t been rimmed with artfully-smudged kohl, Chris had a feeling that penetrating gaze would have sucked the breath right out of his lungs.  As it was, Chris felt a sudden twinge of desire deep in his gut.

Chris tried to keep his face – and other parts of his body – neutral; the robe wasn’t going to hide anything.  He took in a deep breath and drew his spine up straight, trying to meet those piercing, dark eyes without flinching away.  After the other three, Chris had expected some type of exaggerated reaction from Zach, positive or negative, but Zach just looked him up and down once, his nostrils flaring slightly, and… smiled.  It was a surprisingly warm smile, but it gave nothing away.

His presence was so ethereal that it startled Chris a little when the other man extended his hand.  “Hi, I’m Zach.  As I’m sure you’ve figured out, I’ll be your stylist.  We’ll be spending quite a bit of time together in the next week.”

His eyes still glued to Zach’s, Chris could only manage to grasp Zach’s hand and croak, “Chris,” by way of greeting.

Zach squeezed his hand instead of shaking it, and Chris was suddenly aware of all the calluses on his palms and the pads of his fingers, how rough they must feel against Zach’s smooth skin, and he felt a flush start to creep up his neck.

Luckily, if Zach noticed, he didn’t show it.  “I see you’ve already met my team.  This is Zoe, who will be doing your hair.”  The dark-skinned woman stepped forward, and along with her delighted grin, Chris could see small jewels set into the skin just above her eyebrows.

“Rachel, nails and makeup.”  The other woman gave a little curtsy, and though Chris couldn’t see anything different about her face (apart from the green skin, of course), her dress was made of some cottony pink material that seemed to shift and change shape like clouds as she moved.  It looked oddly familiar.

“And John, skin and waxing.”  John looked refreshingly normal to Chris, except…

“Waxing?” Chris said, with only a little bit of a squeak.

Zach stepped forward, examining Chris’ face closely, and it was all Chris could do not to squirm.  Zach frowned a little, but said, “Not too much waxing, I shouldn’t think.”

John stepped up alongside him.  “Beauty base zero?”

Zach nodded, not looking away from Chris’ face.  “Except,” he said softly, lifting a finger to stroke Chris’ cheeks, “leave these as they are.  Too pretty and he’ll look like plastic on camera.”

No longer worried about blushing, Chris was sure all the color had drained from his face by this point, and Zach hooked a finger under Chris’ chin, favoring him with yet another enigmatic smile.  “Trust us, Chris.  You’ll have every eye in Panem unable to look away from you.”

&&&

Of all the scars on Chris’ body – and there were many, particularly on his forearms – the only ones he truly hated were the ones that pitted his cheeks.  He’d only just outgrown the acne that left them, and yet they were the only marks Zach insisted he keep.

Chris tried to bring this up with John, but the other man just shrugged.  “I’m trusting Zach on this one.  I’ve never known him to be wrong.”

“But last year,” Chris said, not wanting to insult the man John so obviously admired, particularly while John was stirring a pot of hot wax.  “District 4, um…”

John rolled his eyes.  “That was _not_ Zach’s doing.  Zach was in Eight last year.”

“Textiles?  That was Zach?”  Chris thought back to last year’s Games – the costumes from Eight were the only ones he remembered.  That was where he’d seen Rachel’s cloud dress before, only it had been thunderstorm-gray on the girl from Eight.  In the arena, during a real storm, she’d been gifted a weatherproof blanket from what surely must have been a wealthy sponsor.  Two days later, she was scaling a cliff face when she lost her grip and fell to the pack of feral mutts she’d been desperately scrambling to get away from.

Chris must have shuddered, but fortunately John was facing away, getting small strips of cloth from one of the drawers.  “That was all Zach,” John said.  “He takes pride in his work.”

Chris had hardly seen Zach over the past two days – it had mostly been Zoe and Rachel and now John, getting him to “beauty base zero,” whatever that was.

“Lay back,” John said, turning back to face Chris.  “I swear, I’m on orders from Zach not to take off too much.  I’m just going to neaten up the edges of your eyebrows a little.”

Chris didn’t even bother to ask if it would hurt; even if he hadn’t grown up with the constant threat of crushed fingers and cracked skulls, he was days away from almost certain death.  If he couldn’t handle an eyebrow wax, he was fucked six ways to Sunday.

But it didn’t turn out to be bad at all, particularly compared to the fishhook he’d once gotten stuck in his foot.  And John was telling the truth – he left Chris with his eyebrows intact.

“Zach said the hands are up to you,” John said, reaching for a mirror to hand to Chris.  “We can remove the calluses, but…”

“…I might need them,” Chris finished, trying to push away an image of himself scaling that cliff, fingers grasping for whatever purchase he could find.  “No, thanks, I’d rather leave them.”

He took the mirror from John, getting a good look at himself for the first time since Zoe and John had worked their magic.  Chris stroked his cheeks – Zach had been absolutely right.  Without the scars, he would have looked much younger, but the imperfect face he saw in the mirror looked surprisingly tough.  Zoe had cut his hair, and the small bit of makeup Rachel assured him was necessary for the cameras seemed to bring attention to the strength of his jaw, the height of his cheekbones.  It might look downright intimidating, if Chris could only manage to erase the unmistakable hint of fear in his eyes.

&&&

He didn’t see Zach again until the day of the opening ceremonies.  Chris supposed he should have been upstairs with Mags and Risa and that awful escort who wouldn’t seem to go away, but Mags was beginning to unnerve him.  And Risa, well…  He couldn’t be pleasant and attentive while in a room with a child he might have to kill.

So he asked to have his dinner sent down to the prep room, where he’d have some peace.  His team wasn’t due to arrive for hours, but when Chris walked in, he found Zach already there, sitting at a table set for two.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Zach said, standing as Chris entered the room.  “It was a bit presumptuous of me, but I thought you might like some company.”

Chris’ first impulse was a flicker of annoyance, but one look in Zach’s eyes and he found he was glad to have this particular company.  “No, that’s fine.  To be honest, I thought I’d be seeing more of you.”

Zach’s smile was a little sheepish as he sat back down.  “I could say I like to let John, Zoe, and Rachel do their thing without having me looking over their shoulders, but the truth is, I let time get away from me working on your costume.  It needs to be something special to match that magnificent body.”

It was said entirely without innuendo, but the compliment shot a heady rush of lust through Chris’ veins.  He was saved from having to reply by the servants bringing in the food – what looked like a bowl of stew for Zach and softshell crab for Chris.  He’d had the fleeting thought that perhaps he ought to sample some of Panem’s other delicacies while he still had the chance, but the truth was he was homesick.

Zach picked up on it right away.  “Missing home?”

Chris nodded, cutting into his meal as though it might get up and scamper away.  “But we rarely get the high-quality stuff.  The best of the catch goes straight to the Capitol.”

“Crab fisherman, huh?” Zach asked, stirring his stew.  “Explains the scars.  And the arms.  I promise no fishnets, but those arms are definitely going to be on display tonight.”

Chris felt himself blush again, but tried to focus on his food.  “It’s nearly the end of the season.  Next year, my dad was going to retire and turn his boat over to me.  I guess it’ll have to be Karl; he’s got a lot more experience than me, anyway.  Or maybe my dad will stay on for another few seasons, I don’t—”

“Hey.”  Zach’s hand was suddenly covering Chris’, and when Chris looked up, he was immediately drawn in by the fierceness in Zach’s eyes.  “No talking like that.  You’ve got a shot at winning this thing.  Especially when the crowd out there gets a look at your fine ass.  Emphasized by my masterful tailoring, of course.”

Chris couldn’t stop a nervous giggle rising in his chest.  “Uh, are you supposed to be talking about my ass?”

Zach’s face broke into a wide grin.  “Absolutely not.  Terribly unprofessional for a stylist.”  But his hand didn’t leave Chris’.  In fact, he stroked his thumb over Chris’ knuckles, and Chris had never been so glad for a touch in all his life.

But all too soon, Zach drew his hand away.  “Okay, so crabs and asses are verboten.  What else?  You have a girl back home?”

“Well, my sister told me if I didn’t come back, she’d kick me in the, uh, verboten.  But, well… girls were never really my thing.”  As soon as it was out of his mouth, Chris couldn’t believe he’d said it.  He was pretty certain he’d never said those words aloud to anyone, not even Anton, the only other teenager on the _Gwynne’s Pride_.  They’d spent more than a few night watches wrapped together against the cold, which, the past few times, had almost inevitably led to kissing, chilled lips meeting each other in the dark, the work of their mouths keeping the rest of their bodies warm.

But it had never gone farther than that; he knew such things were readily accepted in the Capitol, and it wasn’t entirely unheard of in District 4, either, but god knew how his father would react if he found out.  There would be no more shared night shifts with Anton at the very least.

But odds were good that there weren’t going to be any more night shifts anyway.

When Chris came back to himself, he found he had completely forgotten about Zach’s presence across the table.  What had his face given away just then?  But Zach smiled sympathetically.  “Girls aren’t my thing, either.  So… a boy back home?”

No, Anton would move on.  He was sweet, but he was flighty, and he had to know that Chris was already lost to him.  “No,” Chris said.  “Not really.”

“That surprises me,” Zach said softly.  “Guy like you?  I mean, setting aside the eyes and the lips and the arms – have I mentioned the arms? – Zoe tells me you’re one charming son of a bitch when you let your guard down.”

“Well, she did have scissors pointed at my head.”

Zach laughed and took a big bite of stew, licking the spoon clean before he went back for more.  Chris couldn’t help but stare at the broad, flat tongue and ache.  There was so much more to life that he would never have.  _Fuck_ – it suddenly hit him: he was going to die a virgin.

Once again, his face had betrayed him – Zach was looking at him with wide eyes.  “Hey, you alright?  You look like someone just told you you’re a tribute in the Hunger Games.”

It was a morbidly awful joke, but for some reason, it made Chris laugh.  “Well, thank fuck _that’s_ not happening.”

Zach smiled and shook his head.  “And he swears like a sailor, too.  Don’t get me wrong, I love it, but you may want to watch your mouth during the interviews.  Get it all out now.”

Chris was still chuckling as he stuffed another bite of crab in his mouth.  He didn’t even bother to finish chewing before saying, “Holy shit, this is some fucking awesome crab.  God _damn_.”

Zach threw back his head and laughed.  “On second thought, it might be rustically charming.  Have you given any thought to an anchor tattoo?  I can give you one that sparkles.”

&&&

Chris’ costume for the opening ceremonies was every bit as lavish as promised – and yes, it showed off his arms quite nicely.  He wore a sleeveless tunic made of tiny overlapping bits of shimmering gold fabric, presumably meant to evoke the scales of a fish, but Rachel assured him it would look more like chain mail on the huge vid screens.  And Zach seemed to have contained himself when it came to showcasing Chris’ ass, since the tunic hung past his waist and the pants he wore with it were loose enough to keep from drawing attention.

Even little Risa looked regal in her dress, made completely of the gold, but with the “scales” growing larger toward the bottom of the skirt.  Though Chris had made up his mind to have as little contact with her as possible, she looked so terrified stepping into the chariot that he leaned over and whispered in her ear how beautiful she looked.  Possibly it was the wrong thing to do – she immediately flushed bright red and made a squeaking noise.

But Chris had to give her credit; she pulled herself together by the time their chariot began its journey out of the bottom floor of the Remake Center, through the crowds lining the streets of the Capitol, and into the City Circle.  Luckily, he didn’t have to speak tonight, just look confident.  He didn’t know if he should try to smile and be charming or scowl and be intimidating.  It was something he probably should have asked Mags as part of their strategy, but only the stylists were with them as they dressed.

Zach had thought it over and said, “Don’t scowl, but… keep your chin up, look confident, look people in the eye.  And every now and then, if you see someone who looks intrigued – or ridiculously wealthy – flash them just a little smile, like you can’t help it.  That smile is going to win you some serious admirers, so dole it out carefully.”

It was as good a strategy as any, and it seemed to work.  When Chris’ eyes happened to light on someone, man or woman, who was leaning in to get a better look, he let the corner of his mouth curl up a touch before quickly smoothing his expression back out.  He almost inevitably got blushes or giggles, and he was pretty sure he even made one woman swoon.  Honest-to-god swoon.  It helped that he was able to forget, until the chariots were stowed safely away in the Training Center, how many of these same people would be cheering for his death in just a few days.

His entire prep team was ready to greet them as they stepped off the chariot, and he got giggly hugs from Zoe and Rachel and a manly backslap from John.  Chris expected Zach to remain somewhat aloof in front of everyone present, but he grinned mischievously and squeezed Chris hard on the shoulder, leaning into whisper, “Fucking brilliant.  Had no idea you were such an incredible actor.”

Chris could still feel that hand on his shoulder as he was led to the District 4 suite, as he sat with Mags and talked training strategy as long as she could keep the thread of conversation.  He could feel the phantom grip of Zach’s fingers as he showered, and by the time Chris slid into bed, he was aching to feel that same grip elsewhere on his body.

Fuck it all, Zach was _hot_.  He couldn’t be that much older than Chris – 25, 26?  It was hard to tell; his face looked so young, but those wickedly clever eyes seemed to hint at experiences beyond anything Chris could dream of.

Well.  That wasn’t _quite_ true.  He was sure he could dream up a few things.

Chris tried to imagine meeting Zach under different circumstances, in District 4 maybe.  It was all Chris knew, but he couldn’t quite imagine Zach on the docks, even in the misty morning haze that made everything seem unreal.  And certainly not in the fish markets, where even the wealthiest buyers would seem vulgar next to someone with Zach’s bearing.

It wouldn’t matter – even if Chris had met Zach in Four, he’d never have had the courage to approach him.  But Chris felt like he’d aged years in the few days since the reaping, now on his own and feeling like the young adult he actually was.  He wasn’t Zach’s equal in any way, but as he lay in bed, sleep eluding him as it had for days, it didn’t seem quite so foreign a thought, him and Zach.

He felt Zach’s hand on him again, long fingers squeezing into his shoulder, and imagined those clever hands trailing down his body.  They’d be smooth as glass, not rough like his own, but by then he was so committed to the fantasy that the feeling of his own callused fingers didn’t break the illusion.  Would Zach know to rub Chris’ nipples, know how a few solid tugs would set Chris’ blood on fire?  Of course he would.

Chris tried to wait as long as possible before taking his cock in his hand.  Zach seemed like the type to tease.  No, not tease – _linger_.  He had such an appreciation for detail.  Though perhaps he’d kindly overlook Chris’ sad excuse for chest hair and keep traveling lower, hands fitting around Chris’ hipbones, thumbs pressing into the hollows there.

Did he dare imagine Zach’s mouth around his cock?  Apparently he did.  Chris could only guess what it would feel like, the heat of Zach’s lips around him.  Spit and his own hand were a poor substitute, but just enough, _oh god_ , just enough for right now.  His hand sped up of its own volition – he hadn’t so much as thought about sex for days, but now his body was already on edge after only a few minutes.

He tried to slow down, but his brain kept flashing images at him – Zach’s eyes boring into him as Chris wrapped his own mouth around the other man’s cock.  Zach groaning softly in Chris’ ear as they rutted against each other.  Zach’s fingers trailing down Chris’ back, all the way down…  Back home, Chris had occasionally played with himself a little, using oil he’d stolen from the kitchen to rub at his hole, press a finger or two in if he was feeling daring. 

Now he had nothing to ease the way, but he wouldn’t have had time to try anyway – he was too close.  He hadn’t even gotten to imagining Zach’s cock, hard and slick, splitting him open.  He was still imagining Zach’s long fingers pressing slowly into him when his own cock pulsed suddenly in his hand and he was coming, curling in on himself and gasping into the pillow.  He milked himself hard, knowing somehow that Zach would want to squeeze every last drop from him and, _fuck_ , maybe even taste it.  His body shuddered at that thought, gave one final jerk, and went limp against the sweaty sheets.

Totally spent, Chris began to drowse even as he wiped his hands clean on the sheets.  He was asleep before he could worry about how he would face Zach the next day.

&&&

As fate would have it, Chris didn’t see Zach again for a while – he had three days of training to get through first.  The common strategy, unless you were one of those meathead Career tributes from One or Two, was to hide your best skills until your private audience with the Gamemakers on the last day, but as Chris looked around at all the different training stations, he had no idea what his best skill was.

He was strong, but that much was impossible to hide.  Just how strong, he supposed he’d try to play down for now.  Mags had taught him plenty about fishhooks that he wasn’t keen to reveal, but it wasn’t as though they had a fishhook-making station anyway. 

So Chris focused on shoring up his weaker areas.  First was the fire-making station, because his only experience with fire was putting it out as fast as possible – a fire at sea was deadly.  He wasn’t certain he’d be able to start one, even with a pile of dry tinder and a flamethrower.  But with a lot of work, he managed to use string and twigs to create the tiniest of sparks on a patch of moss, and he nearly whooped with joy when he managed to get the kindling to go up.

But then he glanced around – how much time had he spent there?  Sure, making a fire was important for survival, but he should probably get some actual weapons training in.  The archery station was a disaster.  Chris kept accidentally snapping his forearm with the bowstring, and he managed to hit the unnervingly-human-shaped target all of once.  In the foot.  That got quite a laugh out of the other tributes who were watching, but Chris just turned on them and growled, “Gonna be real fucking funny when you try to run away with an arrow in your foot.”

That actually made some of them laugh harder, but Chris forced himself to walk away and try something else.  Surely there was _something_ he wouldn’t be terrible at.  His older sister had taken up spear fishing off the docks as a hobby since she wasn’t allowed on the crab boat – a combination of a superstitious crew and an overprotective father – and she’d grudgingly taught Chris some of what she knew.

The spears in the training center didn’t much resemble the handheld harpoon that Katie used – they were heavier and without barbs – but Chris still felt a pang of homesickness as he picked one up.  He realized as he began to practice that correcting for the visual distortion of the water had trained him to aim low, but after he speared three dummies in a row straight through the crotch, no one was laughing at him anymore. 

Katie was never a patient teacher, but he imagined even she would be proud of him.  It occurred to him that, had she been selected as a tribute when she was a teenager, she’d probably stand a better shot of winning than he did.  Chris just wanted to survive; Katie wouldn’t be afraid to _hunt_.

That night, he fell into bed too fatigued and disgusted with himself to even think about jerking off.    Sure, most of his competitors would probably be taken out by someone (or something) else, but Chris couldn’t remember a Hunger Games in which the winner got through without having to purposefully kill someone.  What if he did win – how would he live with himself?  What would his family think of what he’d done?  What would Zach think of him?  And why did Zach’s opinion matter so much to him?

Exhausted as his body was, it still took him hours to fall asleep.

&&&

The second day of training, he abandoned the spear and tried his hand at knife and axe throwing.  He wasn’t as good with the smaller, precision weapons as he was with a spear, but it went a hell of a lot better than the archery.  He bypassed the hand-to-hand combat station to go back to survival skills – he’d never learned much about edible plants or making shelter while working on a boat.

When the time came to show his skills to the Gamemakers, he started by making a fire – a bit of a gamble, as he still wasn’t completely confident in that area, but it paid off, and he got a decent fire going in under five minutes.  He lifted some weights and worked a punching bag, leaving the spear throwing for last.  He had gotten good enough to be able to regularly hit the dummy square in the chest, but he purposefully aimed his last spear low and was rewarded with a collective gasp from the on-looking male judges.  Perhaps he should have felt smug, but in reality it did little to dispel his simmering disgust for those decadent bastards.

As he passed Risa on the way out, he realized he had no idea what, if any, fighting skills she possessed.  He decided he didn’t want to know.  He’d find out enough when they both got their scores later that evening, watching – as the rest of Panem would be – on the vid screen back in their quarters.

When Chris emerged from the showers for dinner, he wasn’t expecting to see Zach at the table.  Risa’s stylist, Agathena, was there too.  She was an imperious and intimidating older woman, and she seemed to be getting along with Spengler quite well.  Chris disliked her immediately.  He looked over at Zach, who shot him a surreptitious eye roll, and Chris’ heart did a small flip in his chest.

After dinner had been cleared away, they all gathered around the vid screen for the score presentations, and at least Chris didn’t have to wait long to find out his scores.  The Career tributes from Districts 1 and 2 got the expected nines and tens – twelve was the highest, but Chris couldn’t remember anyone ever scoring above a ten.  When his own score flashed up – a pretty surprising nine – he expected to feel something.  Spengler was certainly vocal in his pride, and Mags, though she seemed to be unable to form the right words, squeezed Chris’ hand. 

But Chris felt nothing.  Excellent, so he’d scored a nine.  Maybe it would get him a few sponsors, but how much did that really change the odds?  He still had a one in 24 chance of making it out of there alive, and what was a nine?  Just a number.  He could survive until the final nine.  He could be the ninth one killed.  It meant nothing.

Then Risa’s picture flashed on the screen, accompanied by a score of five, and the girl beside him burst into tears.  That was when his animal hindbrain decided to come online and dump a shot of useless adrenaline in his system – he couldn’t handle sitting next to a thirteen-year-old, sobbing because she was almost certainly about to die.

Chris jumped up and ran.  Without a word, he dashed out the front door of their suite, only to find that he had nowhere to go.  Of course the elevator was key-operated – couldn’t have tributes running for their lives just yet, now could they?  He stood there staring at the closed doors, full of hopeless rage, ready to beat his fists against the walls or the doors or _something_ when the suite door opened behind him, and there was Zach.

The look Zach gave him was all business.  “C’mon,” he said, indicating a small door tucked into a corner that Chris hadn’t even noticed.  Zach pushed it open to reveal a stairwell.

“They secure the elevator but leave the stairs open?” Chris asked in bafflement.

“You can’t get out on the ground floor unless a fire or other emergency overrides the system.  And as much as I would love to commit a little arson on your behalf, the Peacekeepers would be all over us before we could get very far.  But there’s somewhere else we can go.”

Being on the fourth of twelve floors meant eight flights of stairs up to the roof, and both Chris and Zach were breathing hard by the time they got there.  But the breeze felt heavenly on Chris’ skin, and as he closed his eyes, he felt some of his anger and panic begin to ebb.

After a minute, he opened them and looked up.  But the lights from the Capitol were too bright – no stars here.   All the same, Chris felt like he’d rather stare up into the darkness than peer over the side to see the Capitol citizens going about their pointless, vapid little lives, so he lay down on the rough concrete, folding his arms back under his head.

He heard, rather than saw, Zach join him.  He assumed the other man had spent his whole life in the Capitol – no stylist he knew of ever came from one of the Districts.  “You ever seen stars, Zach?”

“Yeah.  You can’t ask me when or where, though.”

“Or what, you’ll have to kill me?”

They both chuckled flatly at that.  After a long moment of silence, Chris turned his head to the side to see Zach’s shoes – apparently the he was laying in the other direction.  So he addressed his concerns to Zach’s black sneakers.  “This fucking sucks.”

“No argument here.”

“And you.  What do you do for a living?  You swab the deck on a sinking ship.”

“I like to think of it more as trying to patch the hull.  With a little more glitter, though.”

Instead of finding it amusing, Chris just felt irritated.  “But you don’t really risk anything, do you?”

“I suppose not,” Zach replied quietly after a moment.

“You fuck up and maybe it puts a dent in your career.  Maybe.  I fuck up, I die.  Hell, even if I don’t fuck up, I’ll probably die anyway.  Nice job you’ve got, getting the corpses all nice and pretty for the camera.”

No response from down beside Chris’ feet.  As the seconds ticked by, Chris kicked himself for lashing out.  It wasn’t Zach’s fault – hell, Zach was doing the best he could to make Chris attractive to the sponsors.  It was the best thing any Capitol citizen – apart from the insanely wealthy ones that did the actual sponsoring – could do for any of the tributes.  “Shit, I’m sorry.  I’m just… pissed off.”

“No, I get it.  You’ve got every right to be pissed off, even at me.  Maybe especially at me.”

“It’s not your fault.  You’re doing more for me than… well, just about anyone else.  I mean, Mags tries, but, well, you saw how she is.  She was born in the Dark Days, before the first Hunger Games, did you know that?  I think she’s the only living victor who was.  And Spengler is—”

“A shithead.”

“Pretty much, yeah.  I think he’s just glad to be out of Four.  I overheard him tell one of the other escorts that he can’t stand the stink of fish.”

Zach snorted.  “I know a guy in the kitchens.  The whole time you’re in the arena, I’ll make sure Spengler eats nothing but seafood.”

It was such a stupid thing to get sentimental over, but Chris felt his heart twist in his chest.  “Thanks.  But don’t go getting yourself in trouble because of me.”

“I’d put up with a lot more trouble if I thought it could help you.”

Chris propped himself up on his elbows to look Zach in the face.  Well, the best he could from that angle.  “You mean that.”  It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“This is my fourth Hunger Games.”

“How many of your tributes have lived?”  Zach’s silence was his answer.  “Man, you’re never going to make it if you keep getting attached to your clients.”

“I don’t,” Zach said softly.  “Just you.”

It was only then that Chris remembered feverishly jerking off to the thought of Zach touching him, and he laid back down – he was sure Zach would see his cheeks flush, even in the dark.  Staring back up into the black, Chris took a few long moments getting up the courage to ask “Why me?”

“I don’t know.  You’re smart.  You’re tough as hell.  You’re practically doing this all on your own.  You’re really fucking gorgeous.”

Chris couldn’t help but smile and bend his leg to knee Zach gently in the side.  “Pretty sure you’re not supposed to be saying that to a kid.”

“You’re not a kid, though.  I get the feeling you haven’t been for a long time.”

Chris’ smile faded.  “You grow up pretty fast when your crew mates’ lives depend on you.  The last time I fucked up, I didn’t tie down the crab pots tight enough during a storm and a man got his hand crushed.  He had to have it amputated.”

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen.”

“So you haven’t fucked up in three years.  Why start now?”

“Well, when you put it that way…” Chris started sarcastically, but he ended with a sigh.  “I’m just… I’m not ready to die.”

“If you were, I’d be a hell of a lot more worried about you going into that arena.  The stylists have a pool going – it’s illegal, but no one’s going to talk – and you’re one of the favorites.”

Chris sat up.  “What, seriously?”

“Yes, seriously,” Zach said, also sitting up.  “You’re a fuck of a lot smarter than everyone else and physically stronger than ninety percent of them.  Mentally stronger than probably all of them.  _If_ I were to bet in a pool that doesn’t officially exist, I would theoretically bet half my salary on you.”

“Half your salary?” Chris said with a genuine laugh.  “You’re an idiot.”

“Well, okay, I exaggerated on that part.  But not by much.  Let’s just say I would be out of my personal eyeliner budget for the next decade.”

“Still an idiot,” Chris said, punching Zach lightly on the shoulder.

“And have I mentioned your arms?  Because I can’t remember if I have.”  Zach gestured for Chris to flex, which he did with a sigh and a roll of his eyes.  Zach grinned shamelessly and made a show of measuring Chris’ bicep with his fingers.  “See?”

Zach’s fingers lingered lightly around Chris’ arm even as he relaxed it, too long to have been unintentional.  “Zach…” Chris said, biting his lip when he wasn’t sure what to say.

“I’m sorry,” Zach said, pulling away.

“No, please,” Chris said, taking Zach’s hand and placing it back on his arm.  “This is one of the last chances I’ll ever have for… for someone to touch me.  Without, you know, trying to strangle me.”

Chris tried for a half-hearted smile, but Zach didn’t laugh.  What he did was lift his hand to brush his knuckles down Chris’ cheek.  “You said you didn’t ‘really’ have a guy back home.  Have you ever…”

Chris’ heart started pounding in his chest and he had to look down – but he didn’t pull away from Zach’s touch.  “I’ve done a few things.  Not… that.”  He felt tears well up in his eyes and couldn’t stop them from spilling over.  He tried to wipe them away before Zach felt them.  “Jesus, what a stupid fucking thing to cry over.”

Zach laughed humorlessly and pulled Chris into a gentle hug.  “Actually, I think that’s the perfect thing to cry over.  I’d be bawling like a baby.  But I guess there’s not much privacy on a crab boat, huh.”

“Is it, um.”  Chris had no idea where the appropriate boundaries were, not here on the deserted rooftop, days before his death, with the only man within a hundred miles who cared whether he lived or died.  “Is it… good?”

Zach’s tone was neutral, but his arms remained tight and warm around Chris.  “Can be.  Can be spectacular.  Can also be boring or even painful.  Depends on who you’re with.”

Chris buried his face against Zach’s shoulder to keep himself from asking the one question he really wanted to ask.  His chest ached with it, but Zach said nothing more and Chris figured it would be wrong.  Hell, what they were doing already was probably wrong.

But when Chris finally sat back, eyes dry, and licked his lips out of habit, Zach didn’t hesitate to lean back in and press his mouth to Chris’.  Chris hardly dared move, and Zach kept his lips closed, but they both shifted into each other a little and something dark and cold inside Chris flared back to life and burned all the way down his spine.  He kissed back the best he knew how, which he knew must seem clumsy and juvenile to Zach, but Zach didn’t pull away for at least a dozen heartbeats.

Zach did eventually end the kiss, pressing another to Chris forehead and squeezing him on the shoulder before getting to his feet.  He offered a hand down to Chris.  “C’mon,” he said softly.  “We need to get back.”

Chris took Zach’s hand and stood, and to Chris’ surprise, Zach didn’t let go until they were back on the fourth floor.

&&&

To make up for running off, Chris apologized and endured a toast in his honor, but it was pure torture.  He tried not to meet Zach’s eyes, but he couldn’t help it, and every time it happened, he felt a jolt of heat in his gut that he couldn’t even begin to control.  Luckily, his pants were loose enough to prevent him from seriously embarrassing himself, but he still had to surreptitiously adjust himself a few times.

When he shook Zach’s hand as he left, Chris felt as though he were burning up from the inside.  He barely managed a cursory “good night” to Mags and Risa, ignoring Spengler completely, before racing to his room.  He shucked his pants and underwear before he even made it to bed, where he curled up, stroking himself feverishly.  All he had to think about was sliding into the wet heat of Zach’s mouth, _Zach’s mouth, Zach’s mouth_ , and he was coming with a cry so loud he could only pray that the walls were thick enough to contain it.

Afterwards, after he had cleaned up and gotten properly in bed, Chris found himself utterly surprised to be fighting back tears.  He had just discovered something new and exciting and terrifying, and he was about to lose it before it even began.  It seemed to open the floodgates, because then he was thinking of home, of his mom and dad and Katie.  What would they think of Zach?  Katie would love him, and he would easily charm Chris’ mom.  Chris’ dad might not be so fond of him at first, but he’d be glad that Chris had had someone to comfort him.

But even if the impossible happened and he won, how could he and Zach have anything together?  For the first time, Chris dared to imagine emerging alive from the arena, giving a few interviews… then being shipped back to District 4.  Sure, he and his family would be given a new home in the Victor’s Village and their district would be showered with extra rations for a year, but he might never see Zach again.  Chris had no idea what the stylists did between Games, but he was pretty sure it didn’t involve slumming it in the Districts.  No, Zach would stay in the Capitol, and Chris would go back to the life he knew – even if he didn’t need the money, he doubted he could live near the sea yet stay forever on the land.

So Chris stopped fighting and let himself weep, for all the things he’d had and taken for granted, and all the things he’d never have.  He’d never been in love before, but he was pretty sure that it had only taken him five days to fall hopelessly and pointlessly in love with Zach.  Win or die, he was fucked either way.

&&&

When Chris awoke the next morning, he felt… empty.  He’d let it all out last night, and he had nothing left.  Which, he began to think, might actually make things easier.  The last event before the Games was his televised interview with Caesar Flickerman tomorrow night, for which Mags was supposed to spend the day coaching him.  Zach would be preparing his outfit.

Apparently, Mags was having a particularly lucid day.  As soon as Chris walked in for breakfast, she looked him up and down and pronounced, “You look like hell.”  It made Chris laugh.

After the meal, she sat him down and actually coached him.  Sometimes it took her a few minutes to put her sentences together, and the pauses nearly made Chris go out of his skin, but he figured it would be good practice for maintaining calm during the actual interview.

“You’re a charming one, yes?” Mags asked.

“I… I guess so.”

“Don’t give me that,” Mags said shrewdly, and Chris felt like he finally got a glimpse of the woman who had won the Games so long ago.  “I watched your face during the parade.  You doled out those dimples like candy to the good little girls and boys.  Excellent work.”

“That was Zach’s suggestion.”

“It was a good one.  But be careful.  Too much of that and you’ll come off as a used boat salesman.  Remember, you’re exotic to them, these Capitol types.  Most of them will go their whole lives without ever seeing the ocean.  So play it rustic, but…”

Mags seemed to be fighting for the right word, and Chris tried to let her do it.  “But?”

“You know the word.  The one where you speak well.”

“Articulate?  Eloquent?”

“Eloquent.  But no spouting poetry about the sea.”

Chris’ jaw dropped.  “Did somebody actually do that?”

Mags nodded.  “About… five years before you were born.  Poor bastard made Flickerman look like the sane one.  Even with the foot-high pink hair.”

Chris laughed again, and Mags managed a crooked smile.  Chris wished he could have known her in her prime.  He could call up the vids of her time in the arena on the screen in his room, but that wasn’t the Mags he wanted to know.

But soon she began to lose her train of thought more often, and she still had to talk to Risa, so Mags suggested Chris watch interviews from the past few years to get an idea of the questions he might be asked.  As he did, he found some paper and actually took notes, because it kept him from thinking _dead, these kids are all dead_.

The day was painfully long with nothing to do but think about what lay ahead of him.  He used the extra paper and wrote a letter for Mags to take back to his family.  At first, he questioned the wisdom of dredging up all that emotion again, but it turned out to be cathartic.  He didn’t write any tearful goodbyes, but described the Capitol, the people he’d met, the days of training.  He had no idea if it would be censored or if Mags would even be allowed to take it back, but he told the truth – he imagined that would give his family the most comfort, that he was still himself. 

He even wrote about Zach, how he was the closest thing Chris had to a friend here, though of course he left out the rooftop kiss.  More than anything, he wanted his family to know Zach’s name, to remember his unexpected kindness if Chris wasn’t there to tell them about it.

&&&

As torturously long as the day had been, that night seemed terrifyingly short.  He and Risa were awakened early, even though the interviews weren’t until the evening.  Spengler rambled on during breakfast about the importance of representing District 4 to the country, but Chris could see even Spengler didn’t really care about what he was saying.

It seemed they’d been rushed through breakfast just to hurry up and wait to be escorted down to their prep teams.  Chris found himself on the sofa next to Risa, and when he looked at her, he felt a sharp pang of guilt for ignoring her so completely.  She hadn’t sought him out, probably for the same reasons he’d avoided her, but Chris had no idea if she had had anyone to talk to these past few days.

“Hey, Risa,” he said, as casually as possible.  “You see Spengler’s face when the servers brought him that plateful of tuna sashimi?”

She looked at him skeptically.  “Are you trying to cheer me up?”

“Mostly I’m trying to distract myself,” he said honestly.  “Hoping it’ll do the same for you.”

It took a moment, but slowly Risa began to smile.  “And he couldn’t send it back because it was the really expensive kind, so he ate every bite of it.”

“Ah, so that’s why he actually ate it.  I was wondering.”

Risa nodded.  “My mom butchers and sells bluefin back home.  I can pretty much tell the price just from the smell.”

She looked like such a brave little thing, talking about home so easily.  Maybe it helped her, or maybe she was in denial.  Chris decided not to ask about her family.  “You nervous about the interview?”

Risa gave him the same look as Katie did when he said something particularly boneheaded.  Did all girls learn that look in school or something?  “Okay,” he backpedaled, “stupid question.”

“Mags was pretty helpful,” Risa said, then leaned in to whisper, “a lot more than I thought.  She’s smart, but she’s so…”

“ _Old_ ,” Chris finished for her.  “I think she might have actually _invented_ the fishhook.”

That got a small giggle out of Risa, and Chris was once again struck by the fear of getting to know this girl.  But he decided that if he refused to comfort a terrified 13-year-old girl, then these fucking Games had already sucked the humanity out of him.

They made slightly awkward small talk.  Risa’s stylist, Agathena, had been at her job for years, but Risa had struck up a sort of friendship with a younger member of her prep team.  Chris was glad for that small mercy – at least Risa hadn’t been completely alone these last few days.

“Do you like Zach?” she asked with a mischievous grin.  “He’s cute.”

Chris’ heart began to beat faster.  He had no idea if he had given himself away, or what she had been told about men who liked other men.  He decided to go the comic route to try to cover up his nerves.  “He’s not cute, he’s _dreamy_ ,” Chris said, fluttering his eyelashes.

“Glad you see it, too,” Risa replied, and Chris knew that she had figured out something was going on.  But she didn’t push it or ask questions or try to embarrass him.  He had the momentary and horrifying thought that she’d try to use it against him in some way, in the interview or in the arena, but when he looked at Risa, he couldn’t find it in himself to be that cynical.

Maybe that was a weakness.

But before he could give it too much thought, their respective prep teams arrived, minus the stylists, to whisk them away.  Chris had never bathed so frequently or so vigorously in his life – not a lot of time or fresh water to spare for anything more than very basic hygiene while out at sea – and he was pretty sure he was starting to lose layers of skin at this point. 

John’s job was done by now, so Chris was first turned over to Rachel, who seemed horrified at the fact that he had split a fingernail during training; Chris hadn’t even noticed, his hands were so used to aching and cracking and bleeding.  But she was able to use some kind of glue and a file to make it look “almost as good as new,” just in case the cameras should, god forbid, pick up on a tiny physical flaw and ruin Chris’ chances in the arena as well as his prep team’s reputation.  But Chris held his tongue and let her work – she was just doing her job, and his nail did hurt a bit less once mended.

She chattered as she did his makeup – “just so you won’t look shiny on camera, I swear” – and though Chris couldn’t care less about what the stylist for District 8 had to say about the ban on decorative skin coloration for the tributes, the noise was almost soothing, and he obviously wasn’t expected to participate.  When Rachel had finished, she gave his face one last, critical look, then to Chris’ great surprise, gave him a quick kiss at his hairline, so as not to disturb his makeup.  “Good luck,” she said, squeezing his hand and bustling out of the room.

Zoe followed right after her.  “Well, I see you’ve still got both your ears.  Rachel didn’t manage to talk them off?”

Chris grinned.  “Wasn’t for lack of trying.”

“Thanks for humoring her.  She’s nervous.  It’s her first year working the Games – she’s fantastic, but she doesn’t quite know how to act around the tributes,” Zoe said, digging out combs and brushes and bottles of hair product.  “She means well.”

When Zoe’s back was turned, Chris shut his eyes and sighed quietly.  Everyone _meant well_ , from the prep teams and stylists to the cooks and servants.  Didn’t mean they could do a damn thing about Chris taking an arrow to the chest when the time came.  He wondered what it must be like, growing up in the Capitol without the fear of a bad season that couldn’t provide for the year ahead, of a storm that could destroy your entire livelihood.  Hell, without fear of the reaping itself.

_At least they’re trying_ , Chris thought.  _At least to them I’m not just another animal getting hunted down_.  They would watch the Games, just like everyone else in Panem, and Chris knew they’d mourn him if he died.  Maybe not for long, but John, Zoe, and even Rachel seemed like the kind of people that would at least remember his name.

It wasn’t until Zoe announced that she was done that Chris realized he’d zoned out completely.  He looked at himself in the mirror and almost laughed – his hair looked almost like it did when he rolled out of bed in the morning, except with a kind of indefinable art to it.  Well, at the very least, Zoe was good.

“Not too much of a talker, huh,” Zoe said, admiring her own work.  “Hope you’ve got a good strategy for the interview.  But you might not need it.  Just give the audience one of those smiles of yours and they’ll be eating out of your hand.”

“Thanks, Zoe,” Chris said.  “Any advice?”

He’d been referring to the interview, but Zoe’s face went deadly serious for a moment, and Chris had the fleeting thought that she’d be a terrifying threat in the arena.  “Don’t let your guard down.  Don’t hesitate.  And _don’t_ leave someone wounded.  I know you think you aren’t a killer, but you aren’t doing them a favor, and it could save your life later on.  If you need to take someone down, make sure you take them _out_.”

Chris’ throat was suddenly too dry to swallow.  “O-okay.”

Her eyes softened.  “I’m sorry this happened to you.  No one deserves it, not even the kids that train and volunteer for it.  If it makes you feel any better, your odds are… unofficially very, very good.”

Chris took a deep breath and figured he’d better get his head back in interview mode.  “Hypothetically, of course,” he said with a weak smile.  “I mean, it’s not like you guys are allowed to bet on me or anything.”

Zoe winked at him.  “Of course not.  Just – hypothetically speaking – you’d better get your ass out of there alive if I want to eat for the next year.”

Chris couldn’t quite manage a laugh at that, but Zoe looked like she understood.  “I’ll see you just before you go onstage to make sure Zach hasn’t fucked around with your hair between now and then.  Right, I forgot to mention: don’t let Zach fuck around with your hair.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll go get him.”

“No need,” Chris heard a familiar voice say, and he turned around to see Zach coming in with a garment bag.  Chris’ heart immediately shot into his throat, but if Zoe noticed, she didn’t draw attention to it.

“Remember what I said,” Zoe said on her way out, and Chris couldn’t tell if she was referring to his hair or… the other thing.

And then he was alone with Zach.  Well, not precisely alone.  He was pretty sure the prep rooms weren’t directly monitored, not if Zoe had felt comfortable bringing up the betting pool, but nor did the doors lock, and anyone could walk in…

But Zach was unzipping the garment bag, looking excited, and Chris tried to push everything else out of his mind.  What elaborate get-up had Zach concocted for him?  A suit with working sprinklers attached?  A tuxedo made out of tarpaulin?

“You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me,” Chris said when the clothes were revealed.  The pants were simple cargos, and the shirt was… “ _Plaid_?”

Zach just grinned.  “When was the last time you wore a formal suit?”

It took Chris a minute to think.  “At my Granddad’s funeral.”

“Exactly.  I send you out there in a suit, you’re going to be uncomfortable as hell and, worse, _look_ uncomfortable as hell.  Obviously, this is a little more casual than most, but at least try it on before you make up your mind.”

Chris did, so shocked that he thought nothing of stripping in front of Zach to put the clothes on.  The pants fit him perfectly, loose enough to be comfortable, but just tight enough to show the shape of his ass.  Chris almost rolled his eyes at that.

And the shirt… yes, it was plaid, but it wasn’t the rough, heavy flannel he lived in back home.  He couldn’t identify the material – it was soft as cashmere, and even looked touchable.  And woven into the plaid – which was a slightly muted blue that made his eyes look like the ocean itself – was some kind of glistening fiber that just barely caught the light when he moved.

Zach looked like he was suppressing a grin at his own genius.  “I went understated on purpose.  I’m trusting you to provide the charm.”

“Um, thanks?”

“Though I did give some thought to putting you in a wetsuit…”

“No, this is great.  Excellent.  Really, really… Oh god, I’m going to fuck this up so bad.”

“Chris,” Zach said, stepping closer, his voice going soft.  “You’ve got this.  Worst case scenario, you say something embarrassing and you blush.  Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are when you blush?  You might want to flub up on purpose.”

“Don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” Chris said, unsure if his thrumming heart was a result of nerves or Zach’s close proximity.

Zach’s long, dark eyelashes dipped and his lip quirked up in a small smile.  “The people already love you.  I can honestly say I have never told a single one of my clients this, but… just be yourself.”

Chris couldn’t stifle a groan.  “That’s all you’ve got?  ‘Be yourself’?  I’m screwed.”

“And this,” Zach said, leaning in and pressing his lips to Chris’.

Chris was too shocked to react – Zach’s tongue was sweeping lightly against Chris’ lower lip and then his mouth was gone.  No, not gone, trailing hot breath up to Chris’ ear, where Zach whispered, “For luck.”

“I, um…” Chris babbled.  “Could I have a little more luck, please?”

Zach chuckled, his nose still pressed lightly to Chris’ cheek.  “After.  I promise.”

&&&

After Zach left, Chris had just enough time before his interview to will his hard-on away.  But the prospect of more, of getting to kiss Zach again, stuck with him, kept his energy high.  Afterwards, he couldn’t recall a single thing he’d said to Flickerman, apart from an accidental curse.  It was mild enough that it wouldn’t be censored on the broadcast, but Chris didn’t try to stop himself from blushing.  He could have sworn he heard sighs from the audience – although he couldn’t see a thing, not with all the lights pointed at him.

The backstage area was a zoo, prep teams and chaperones and tributes coming and going, all crammed into too small a space.  Though there were still sixteen tributes left to interview, Chris never got so much as a glimpse of Zach.  He thought he saw Rachel once and tried to fight through the crowd to get to her, but by that time, the interviews were over and everyone was being herded back toward the elevators.

When Chris got back to the District 4 suite, Zach was waiting for him – as were Mags, Spengler, and Agathena, though, so Chris could hardly hold Zach to his promise.  Dinner had already been laid out, and Chris had to force himself to eat.  Risa had nearly burst into tears during her interview when asked about her family, and she still looked mere moments away from breaking down, so he tried not to look in her direction too often.  No one seemed to have much to say, save for Agathena’s opinions on every other stylist’s work, few of which were positive.

The stylists were the ones who would take Chris and Risa to the arena early the next morning, so they had to say their goodbyes to Mags and Spengler that night.  Getting rid of Spengler took merely a gruff handshake, but Mags looked like she was struggling to say something important.  She took Chris’ hand and he waited patiently.

“Trust your instincts,” she said at last.  “Just like you’d do on the water.  I’ll do my best to get you sponsors.  I’ll do…”

She seemed to lose the words, but frowned for a moment and nodded with finality at Chris, as though she had gotten across what she wanted to say.  “I know you will,” Chris said, putting his arms around the tiny old woman and kissing her cheek.  “Thank you.  And I think Risa could use some support right about now.”

Mags nodded and went to go comfort the shaking girl.  Chris’ motives in sending Mags to see to Risa hadn’t been entirely altruistic, but when he looked around, it seemed like both Zach and Agathena had already left.  He hadn’t even seen them go.  Chris tamped down hard on his disappointment and said, to no one in particular, “I think I’ll go ahead and get ready for bed.”

It was still relatively early and Chris wasn’t sure he was going to be able to sleep anyway, but he had to at least try.  He scrubbed the makeup from his face and brushed his teeth but decided to forgo the pajamas.  They were silk and no doubt very expensive, but something about them felt too slick, too foreign.  He’d just ended up taking them off in the middle of the night the past few nights anyway.

As he slid into bed in just his boxers, he wished for the millionth time since he got here that he had a book with him.  Back in Four, he had been hustled onto the train with literally nothing but the clothes on his back, and even those had been taken from him after his first day.  There was a vid screen in his room, but even if he’d wanted to watch it, all that would be on were replays of the interviews or highlights from past Games.  There were no drawers in the room – what would they hold?  Certainly nothing to read.  Not a single scrap of writing in the entire suite.  He didn’t even know if it was allowed, but he should have asked Spengler for a book or a newspaper; at least then the man would have proved himself good for something.

So Chris lay in bed with the lights dimmed, staring up at the ceiling and trying to remember a poem, a passage from a favorite book, something to occupy his mind.  The faces of his family kept swimming up into his consciousness, but he couldn’t think about them, not right now.  If he went down that road, he knew he’d never sleep, and god only knew when the next chance he would get for real sleep would be.  Since from tomorrow on he’d be closing his eyes with the knowledge that there were 23 other people out to kill him, that chance might never come.  He didn’t know how he’d sleep in the arena.

Hell, he didn’t know how he was going to get to sleep _now_.   He was still too wired from the interview, body still too primed by Zach’s promise, now never to be delivered on.  He was pretty sure there wouldn’t be any privacy tomorrow morning.  God, _Zach_ …  Even with everything that was about to happen, the horror he was about to face, all Chris could feel was petulant anger that he’d never get to feel Zach’s lips on his again.

He was drifting in the twilight between slumber and consciousness when his door slid open.  There were no locks on the bedroom doors either – couldn’t have tributes locking themselves in – and Chris shot upright in his bed, half expecting Mags to wander in with some suddenly-remembered advice.

But even in the dim light, Chris recognized Zach’s figure.  He held a finger over his lips as he pulled the door shut – a useless gesture, since Chris couldn’t force a single word out of his mouth.  He was caught between the desire to go right to Zach and the instinct to hide his near-nakedness under the covers – as though Zach hadn’t seen him in the same state just hours before.

Zach was sitting on the edge of the bed when Chris found his voice again.  “What…?  How did you…?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Zach said.  “I made you a promise, remember?”

As though Chris could possibly forget.  He was already scrambling out from under the covers as he asked, “Did anyone see you come in?  Could you get in trouble for this?”

“It doesn’t _matter_ ,” Zach repeated, reaching out and resting his hands on Chris’ shoulders.  “Now do you want that kiss or—”

Chris didn’t give him the chance to finish the sentence, just threw himself artlessly against Zach.  He was sure it was crude, the way he licked into Zach’s mouth without any warning, but Zach just opened to him, swaying with the force of Chris’ lunge like an experienced seaman rocking with the waves.  He stroked Chris’ hair and let Chris explore his mouth, all tongue and heat and no finesse at all.  Kissing Anton had been nothing like this – it had been hot and secret and good, but with none of this all-encompassing _want_ that Chris was powerless to control.

When Chris finally had to break away to breathe, Zach barely gave him a moment before pressing their mouths together again, this time tangling his tongue with Chris’.  Chris let him take the lead this time, show him how to kiss and suck and lick until Chris’ lips felt swollen and tingly.  Chris moaned against Zach’s mouth, suddenly realizing he’d actually managed to wrap his arms and legs around Zach’s body, clinging to him desperately.  And Chris was so hard, pressing shamelessly against Zach’s lower belly, and then rocking down to feel that Zach was well on his way to the same.

“Chris,” Zach whispered, continuing to kiss him but backing off a little.  “I know you’ve never… And this has to be the worst possible time.  But if you don’t want me to—”

“No!” Chris cried, only belatedly worrying how loud he’d been.  “I know… I know it’s probably wrong, and it could get you in trouble, and I don’t know if you even want—”

“I do,” Zach murmured breathlessly and Chris had to stop talking to kiss him again.

“Whatever you want, Chris,” Zach gasped.  “Whatever I can give you.”

Chris couldn’t think more than one step ahead.  “Off,” he said, clawing at Zach’s clothes.  “Take these off.”

Zach divested himself of the simple black shirt and black jeans with such ease that Chris momentarily wondered how many times Zach had done this – more specifically, if he’d ever done so with his previous tributes.  Whether Chris was anything special at all.  But then he remembered Zach’s words on the rooftop: “Just you.”

And it hardly mattered when Zach’s clothes – _all_ of Zach’s clothes – had come off.  Chris couldn’t decide what to touch first, but as he knelt up on the bed, his hands landed on Zach’s chest for balance and his fingers buried themselves in Zach’s chest hair.  It was so much softer than it looked, certainly much more impressive than the pale, pathetic down on Chris’ own chest, and he couldn’t help but press his face to it, feel the warmth of Zach’s skin and the rasp of Zach’s hair against his cheek.

He didn’t even think to be self-conscious about it until he heard Zach chuckle softly, felt Zach’s hands rest gently on his head.  Chris looked up at him, cheeks flushed, but Zach’s smile was warm.  “What do you want, Chris?”

“Um,” Chris swallowed loudly.  “Everything?”

Zach chuckled again, his eyes bright with mischief.  “Tell you what, lie back down, okay?”

Chris nodded and quickly scooted back to his original position on the bed.  Zach was already crawling towards him, and Chris carelessly yanked down his own boxers, yelping softly when his hardening cock caught briefly in the waistband and slapped back against his stomach.

“Slow down a little,” Zach said, helping Chris pull the offending garment all the way off.  “We’ve got some time as long as we’re quiet.  Well,” Zach said with a grin, “relatively quiet.”

Chris stifled a moan with the back of his hand as Zach moved over him, lowering slowly until his body covered Chris’.  The sensation of Zach’s cock pressed next to Chris’ own robbed Chris of all thought and speech; he could do little more than shiver and whimper at the sheer perfection of the feeling.

“This okay?” Zach asked, so close his breath brushed Chris’ lips, and Chris managed to nod.  Up close, Zach’s eyes looked huge and dark, wide black pupils ringed with deep amber.  Even without the eyeliner, they were captivating, and he kept them open as he began to kiss Chris again, slow but deep.  Chris held his own eyes open as long as he could, but lust was racing through his veins so fast that they began to roll back in his head.

Zach’s weight remained a steady pressure against Chris’ body, but Chris soon found that he couldn’t stop his hips from rocking up, seeking friction for his already-aching cock.  He could feel Zach hardening further against him, but Zach wasn’t _moving_ , dammit, nothing but his mouth, which continued its leisurely plunder of Chris’ own.

Without thinking, Chris reached down and grabbed Zach’s ass as he thrust up, gasping half at the sensation and half at his own boldness.  Zach’s mouth drew back and Chris could feel a smile against his lips.  “Ready for more?” Zach whispered, nipping teasingly at Chris’ lower lip.

“ _Yes_ ,” Chris groaned, not even sure what he was agreeing to, only that he wanted whatever Zach was offering.

Turned out Zach’s plan wasn’t all that hard to determine.  His mouth descended in a firm line of kisses down Chris’ neck, the center of his chest – pausing briefly to flick a tongue across each nipple – down his belly.  Chris was nearly hyperventilating by the time Zach reached his destination, Chris practically grinding his teeth with frustration because he knew he wouldn’t last a second once Zach got his mouth on him.

But Zach gave Chris a moment to catch his breath, nuzzling into the crease of his hips, mouthing gently – _oh god_ – at Chris’ balls.  It didn’t slow Chris’ racing pulse one bit – though maybe that was never Zach’s intention.  “Zach, please,” Chris said in a hoarse whisper, embarrassed at his impatience but unable to take any more.

The first touch of Zach’s tongue to the tip of Chris’ cock had Chris shoving his hand in his mouth to keep from screaming.  His hips would have been a foot in the air if Zach hadn’t been firmly holding them down.  Zach sucked lightly at the tip, tasting the fluid already beading there, and Chris shut his eyes and bit down on his finger to try to hold off for a few more seconds.

Without any warning, Chris suddenly felt his cock engulfed in wet, sucking heat, a sensation so divine he wailed around the fingers in his mouth.  His eyes flew open to see Zach staring up at him, and as their eyes locked, Chris was gone, body spasming with such force that he forgot to breathe.  Zach seemed to swallow him down easily, a sight that only intensified the jolts of pleasure wracking Chris’ body.

It was over too soon; far, far too soon.  Chris hadn’t even realized that he’d propped himself up on his elbows to watch until his arms gave out and he collapsed back to the bed.  He felt himself flush with shame that he’d come so quickly, but Zach didn’t seem to mind, gently releasing his spent cock to lavish kisses on his stomach, which was still heaving with each breath.

The next few minutes must have been lost in a post-orgasmic haze, because the next thing Chris knew, Zach’s head was up on the pillow, his body warm and lean and hard against Chris’.  Zach tilted Chris face toward him with two fingers, and Chris forced his eyes to focus.  “Good?” Zach asked.

By way of answer, Chris rolled into Zach’s embrace, kissing him hard and wanton, more than a little amazed at the taste of himself in Zach’s mouth.  He locked a hand around the back of Zach’s neck, fully intending to keep him right where he was for all of time, the rest of the world be damned.  Zach moaned softly and tugged at Chris’ lower back, pulling them flush together from shoulders to thighs, and Chris felt that Zach was still hard.

And that his own cock was starting to fill out once more.

“Oh my god,” Chris groaned, reaching down to grasp himself.  He gasped – he was still too sensitive – but his knuckles bumped Zach’s dick, which Chris realized he had yet to touch.  When he took Zach in a firm grip, he could tell he genuinely surprised the other man.  Grinning, Chris eagerly explored the texture and dimensions of Zach’s cock, reveling in victory when Zach’s eyes slammed shut and he moaned brokenly.

Just as Chris had begun to get a real rhythm going, Zach grabbed his wrist hard.  “W-wait.  Please.  There’s more.  If… if you want it.”

Chris jaw dropped as Zach released him and went back across the bed to search for his pants.  Chris hadn’t dared hope…  Well, he hadn’t dared hope for any of it, but _this_ , for he and Zach to…  His brain couldn’t even form the thought, not even as Zach returned with a condom and a small packet that had to contain lube.

“We’re going to fuck,” Chris stammered, rendered utterly stupid at the thought.  “You’re going to fuck me.”

“No.”

Chris froze.  The thought of Zach opening him up, pushing inside him had already gotten Chris hard again.  Did Zach want him to beg?  He’d beg.  He’d beg all night if he had to.  “Please, Zach.  _Please_ , I want you to fuck me.”

“No,” Zach said, shaking his head.  “You’ll be too sore tomorrow, and as much as I don’t want to think about tomorrow, you can’t afford to be sore.  I’m sorry.” 

Then a slow grin began to spread across his lips.  “You’re going to fuck _me_.”

Chris was pretty sure his heart stopped.

“Wh-seriously?  I can…?  You’d let me…?”

“ _Let_ you?” Zach asked with a laugh, manhandling Chris until their positions were reversed and Zach lay on his back on the bed.  “I’d totally beg you for it.  Y’know, if that were my style.”

By the time Chris could once again form a coherent sentence, Zach had stuffed a pillow under his hips, opened the lube, and was fingering himself.  “Do you want some, uh, help… with the…?” Chris asked awkwardly.  Okay, so maybe not the _most_ coherent sentence…

“No, I got it,” Zach said, grunting softly as he worked a second finger into himself.  “You just work on that.”  He used his free hand to flick the condom at Chris.

Chris nodded, immensely relieved, as he could freely admit that he had no idea what the hell he was doing.  His hands shook as he tore open the packet and attempted not to drop the condom.  He tried unsuccessfully to roll it on inside out first, but fortunately Zach didn’t seem to notice.

By the time Chris had gotten the condom on, Zach was fucking himself on three fingers and rubbing his dick against his belly with the flat of his palm.  “Just another minute,” Zach gasped.  “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s a lot of you to take.”

Chris nodded dumbly, unsure of what to do in the meantime.  “Should I, uh…”

“Come up here,” Zach said.  “Kiss me.”

That, Chris could handle.  He slid up beside Zach and their mouths met, softer this time, less frantic.  Chris let his hand rest on Zach’s chest, sliding through the dark hair to feel Zach’s racing heartbeat.  He could also feel the motion of Zach’s arm as he fingered himself, and it made Chris’ cock twitch in anticipation.  Zach barely had the chance to ask “Ready?” before Chris was breathing out _yes_ against his lips.

Then Chris was kneeling between Zach’s spread legs, spreading the last of the lube over his sheathed cock and lining himself up.  He tried to hide his trembling, but Zach reached down to hold his wrist and rub it reassuringly.  “Go slow if you can, yeah?” he said, his eyes twinkling.  “I don’t do things this way very often.”

Chris nodded and locked eyes with Zach as he pushed forward.  There was resistance, and even without looking he could feel Zach bearing down, trying to take Chris in until suddenly the head of his cock slid inside and Chris doubled over with pleasure.  So hot, so _tight_.  Chris squeezed his eyes shut, already fearing for his stamina despite his earlier orgasm.  But he wanted so badly to make it last this time, to make it good for Zach if it was the last thing he ever did.  Because it might _be_ the last thing he ever did.

When Chris opened his eyes, Zach was gazing up at him with glassy eyes.  “More, Chris.  Give me more.”

Chris slid forward another inch and stopped, gasping.  “Am I—?  Is this—?”

“Perfect,” Zach said, arching his back to take a little more of Chris inside.  He roughly fisted his own cock, and Chris could see sweat starting to break out on his temples.

It went like that, inch by agonizing inch, until Chris was buried completely in Zach’s body.  Chris dropped his head to Zach’s chest and moaned, his every sense torn between the perfection of Zach’s heat and the overwhelming need to thrust.

“ _Fuck_ , you feel so good,” Zach moaned.  “You can start moving any time you—”

Zach didn’t even have to get the words out before Chris was pulling back for a stuttering, hesitant thrust that forced the breath from his lungs.  Once it started, though, his body seemed to know what to do, though Chris tried with all his might to keep it slow, relish every second.

Zach pushed himself up further, his hips almost completely off the pillow beneath, and on one deep stroke he grunted and tugged hard at himself.  Chris tried to keep the angle, to find that spot again, and though he couldn’t hit the mark consistently, he felt like shouting with triumph whenever he was able to draw that particular desperate sound from Zach’s lips.

Without meaning to, he began to piston his hips harder, and Zach groaned but lifted a leg to twine around Chris’ hip and urge him on.  “Just like that.  C’mon, let go.”

Given permission to focus on his own voracious need, Chris planted his hands by Zach’s shoulders and thrust recklessly into Zach’s body.  He felt that delicious tension begin to coil in the pit of his stomach again, and Zach’s rhythmic groans drove Chris’ pleasure ever higher.  He was sobbing with it, his whole body racing unstoppably toward climax, and Zach was saying his name, whispering it like a secret and touching Chris’ face with his hands, and Chris shuddered hard and let go.  He crumpled down to land against Zach’s chest and Zach held him tight through every ecstatic pulse as Chris muffled his cries against the other man’s shoulder.

He was able to get his senses back much quicker this time, feeling Zach’s hand work its way between their bodies to start to tug at his cock.  God, Zach was still hard after all this time.  Chris fought the exhaustion weakening his limbs to push up on one elbow and reach down, too.  Zach took Chris’ hand and wrapped it around his cock, keeping his own hand clutched around Chris’ as he showed Chris how fast, how tight he needed to be stroked.  It didn’t take long before Zach was bucking and gasping, body clenching hard around Chris’ cock still deep in his body.

The aftermath was distinctly awkward, in no small part due to the fact that Chris’ body was telling him that it was time for sleep, _now_.  But Zach helped him through the cleanup, getting a towel from the bathroom and disposing of the condom.  Chris had a fleeting worry about someone finding it in the trash before remembering that it didn’t matter one fucking bit come morning.

Chris fought his fatigue long enough to crawl under the covers – well, at least he was sure he’d sleep tonight.  He reached out to Zach, the gesture feeling painfully childlike but essential.  “Can you stay?”

Zach glanced at the door and as worry creased his features for a split second, Chris’ heart sank.  But then Zach turned back to the bed, his expression smoothing into a soft smile.  “Yeah, of course.  I’m the one who’s supposed to come get you in the morning anyway.  It’ll save me a trip.”

And if Zach had any problems with Chris clinging to him beneath the blanket, he kept them to himself.  Chris had only intended to hug Zach briefly, but when his fingers found the warmth of Zach’s skin and the scent of sweat and sex and _Zach_ filled his lungs, he found himself clutching the other man jealously.  Zach wrapped his own arms around Chris, helping him settle his head against Zach’s chest, and as Chris finally surrendered to the exhaustion, he realized that he was smiling.

&&&

_Chris.  Chris, it’s time to wake up._

No, couldn’t be.  Chris had only been asleep for a few minutes.  He could swear it was only moments ago that he closed his eyes, curled into the warmth of Zach’s body, and—

“Chris.  C’mon, you gotta get up.  I’m sorry, but it’s time.”

Even the press of Zach’s lips to his temple couldn’t prevent the chill that ran down Chris’ spine when he remembered where he was, and what he had to do.

Zach was already dressed, somehow looking immaculate as always, and he was sitting on the edge of the bed, a gentle hand combing through Chris’ hair.  “I let you sleep as long as I could.  But you need to get up and get dressed.  It’s time to go.”

Bile rose in Chris’ throat, and he had one fleeting moment to wonder what would happen if he didn’t move, if he pulled Zach down to the bed and shoved his hands under Zach’s shirt and just refused to let go.  He knew exactly what would happen: Zach would wrap his arms around Chris’ waist and hang on until the Peacekeepers came to physically pry them apart.  Chris would get sent into the arena anyway and Zach… _if_ they let Zach live, it wouldn’t be without a heavy, heavy price, one Chris couldn’t even bear to think about.

Chris was able to force himself out of bed, and Zach handed him his clothes and ushered him into the bathroom to change, giving him at least that little bit of privacy.  Zach hadn’t had a hand in designing these clothes – all the tributes wore the same thing.  Along with boots, a belt, and a jacket, it was pretty much a basic black bodysuit, but if Chris wasn’t mistaken, it was at least partially made of neoprene.  Neoprene might mean an abundance of water, which might mean Chris stood a chance.  He wasn’t sure if he should try to feel optimistic or not.

As he squirmed into the suit, he realized he was sore, abs and thighs burning a little from the unfamiliar exertion the night before.  That he could deal with, but Zach had probably been right about… the other.  Chris couldn’t let his mind go down that road, the fact that he would never get to feel… no.  He stopped himself there.

When Chris stepped out of the bathroom, Zach looked him up and down – and, to Chris’ great surprise, grinned.  “I’m sorry,” Zach said, not sounding sorry in the least.  “This is probably not the time to tell you how utterly hot you look.”

Amazingly, Chris felt his own lips start to curl up into a smile.  “No, actually this is the perfect time to tell me how hot I look.  Please, extemporize on my hotness at length.”

Zach laughed and held out his arms, drawing Chris in until their foreheads rested together.  “You look gorgeous,” Zach whispered, his eyes a huge, dark blur in Chris’ vision.  “Ridiculously sexy.  Never seen anything better.”

Chris was kissing him then, soft and easy as Zach bundled him tighter into his arms.  Then a buzzer near the door went off and Zach pulled his mouth away, but kept Chris close for the moment.  “This is how it’s going to go: the Peacekeepers will take us down to the hovercraft and ride with us to the arena.  But they can’t go into the Launch Room.  That’ll be just you and me, okay?”

Chris nodded; so these weren’t his last moments alone with Zach.  Okay.  He could handle that.  Zach reluctantly let Chris go, his expression inscrutable as he lifted his hand to cup Chris’ chin, draw his thumb over Chris’ lower lip.  Chris shut his eyes and just tried not to shake.  He knew what Zach wasn’t saying – _when we step out of this room, we’re nothing but tribute and stylist again_.  Their lives probably depended on it.

Chris’ eyes remained closed as Zach dropped his hand and went to the door first.  This wasn’t it for him and Zach; they weren’t quite done yet, and that was the only thing keeping Chris together as he opened his eyes, took a huge gulp of air, and strode out of the room after Zach.  After getting a Tracker injected in his arm, Chris followed Zach up the ladder to the hovercraft.

Zach attempted to keep up an amiable chat with the Peacekeepers – not exactly the easiest thing to do when Chris was pretty sure that getting a stick shoved up your ass was Day One of Peacekeeper training.  But even they couldn’t resist Zach’s charm, and he soon had them talking about some new recreational center in the Capitol.  Chris was desperately grateful – it kept the Peacekeepers’ attention off of him and, to some extent, his attention off Zach.  Otherwise, he’d be grabbing for Zach’s hand in a second.

The windows went dark soon after they left the Capitol so that no one got a glimpse of the arena before the Games began.  Chris just stared at the blackness.  The ride of the hovercraft was unnaturally smooth; nothing like a boat at all, no rhythm to rock with.  Maybe that was for the best, but it didn’t stop him from thinking of home anyway.  His parents and his sister – what were they going through right now?

No.  If Chris was going to think about his family, his last thoughts of them needed to be of _them_ , of their lives together.  His dad shouting instructions across the deck as they hauled in a pot, whooping with joy and slapping Chris a little too hard on the back if it was full of crab.  His sister standing close behind him on the docks, hand wrapped around his on the spear as she showed him how to aim.  His mom always waiting for them whenever they came into port, sure to throw her arms around Chris as soon as he got off the boat – then tell him how badly he needed a haircut.

He couldn’t do this.  He couldn’t step in that arena – he’d be killed in seconds.  There had to be some kind of way out, some escape.  Chris broke out into a cold sweat as he glanced frantically around the small hovercraft.  How high did these things fly?  Could you bail out of them?  There had to be emergency parachutes, at least for the Peacekeepers.  Could he get to one before he got shot?  Would it be preferable to just get shot now and get it over with?  At least he wouldn’t die alone in the wilderness or at the hand of some bloodthirsty Career tribute.

He was breathing so hard he didn’t hear someone calling his name, and when he did, it was as though the voice was miles away.  It wasn’t until a warm body slid into the seat next to him and a firm hand clamped down on his shoulder that Chris came back from wherever he’d gone.  Zach was sitting next to him, one hand on Chris’ shoulder and the other gripping his bicep firmly, grounding him.  “Chris.  _Chris_.  You need to calm down.  We’re almost there.  Okay?  Just a little while longer.”

Again, he heard what Zach was telling him without the words – _just a little while longer and we’ll be alone together_.  Past that…  He couldn’t think past that or he wouldn’t make it out of the hovercraft alive.  He just had to hold on until they got the Launch Room.  That was all.  Just until the Peacekeepers left them.

The Peacekeepers – _shit_.  But when he looked at them, they were pointedly looking down.  Zach wasn’t doing anything inappropriate that would give them away; it just looked like he was trying to keep a scared kid from having a panic attack.  Which, funnily enough, was exactly what he was doing.

Slowly, Chris got his breathing under control until he didn’t feel quite so lightheaded.  “Good,” Zach said, his shaky smile so full of concern that it was probably a good thing the Peacekeepers couldn’t see it.  “You’re doing great, Chris.”

Chris nodded, still not quite able to speak, and tipped his head back against the seat.  He clamped down hard on a sound of protest as Zach let go of him and moved away, but then the hovercraft was lurching slightly as it docked and Chris had to use all his focus to get himself to his feet and make them move.

He and Zach walked side by side through the labyrinthine catacombs beneath the arena, one Peacekeeper ahead of them and one behind.  Chris walked like a wind-up toy, just one foot in front of the other, not looking around, not thinking, just one step, then the next, then the next.  It almost surprised him when they came to a halt in front of a heavily-secured door.  The Peacekeeper ahead of them used some kind of complicated-looking key to open it, and then Chris and Zach were alone again.

Chris turned to face Zach, wanting badly to simply throw himself into Zach’s arms, but he was frozen to the spot.  “How much time do we have?”

“Half an hour, maybe,” Zach said, and it looked like he was stopping himself from reaching for Chris.  “But you need to eat.”

There had been food on the hovercraft, but Chris had been too upset to even think about it.  He wasn’t particularly hungry now, but Zach was right; he needed something in his stomach, even if he was half-certain he’d lose it the moment he stepped into the arena.

“Sit,” Zach said, gesturing toward the couch.  “I’ll get you something.”  He came back with a small bowl of warm stew and a glass of water, and Chris was surprisingly grateful that Zach hadn’t brought him any seafood – he didn’t think he could handle it right now.

“Um,” Chris began, between bites of the stew.  “Are there… are there any cameras in here?  I know they don’t broadcast the tributes in the Launch Rooms, but is anyone watching?”

“No,” Zach said simply, sliding closer on the couch, and Chris set the water down on the table and the bowl in his lap so he could grip Zach’s hand with his free one.

He was focused so hard on eating, on swallowing each mouthful, that he was actually surprised when his spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl.  He stared at it idiotically until Zach gently took it from him.  Chris had no idea how much time had gone by, or what to do with what he had left of it.

Zach urged him to finish the water, then took both of Chris’ hands in his.  “I’d ask how you were doing, but that seems like an immensely stupid question right now.”

Chris managed a humorless laugh.  “No, y’know, that’s fine.  I’m… still breathing, which is good.  Just a heads up: I’m probably going to start crying here in a minute.  I’ll try to keep the snot to a minimum, but no promises.”

“It’s all good.  I wore my snot-proof shirt today.”

For fuck’s sake, they were talking about _snot_ when Chris was about to…  He had to stop that train of thought – he wasn’t spending his last moments outside the arena with his head already in there – and the quickest way to do it was to lift his hands to Zach’s cheeks.  The light scratch of stubble was surprisingly soft under his fingers as he traced the shape of Zach’s jaw, trying to memorize it.

Zach sat very still, and it took Chris a few moments to realize that Zach was waiting for _him_ to make the first move.  He pulled Zach close, lips hovering just a hairsbreadth away from Zach’s, wanting to feel the warmth of Zach’s breath, and maybe wanting Zach to close that last bit of distance so Chris would know beyond a doubt that Zach wanted this, too.

He waited for the space of one heartbeat, then two, and then Zach’s mouth was covering his, slow and heartbreakingly gentle.  Chris pulled Zach as tight against him as he could, wanting nothing more than to crawl into Zach and hide there.  When he tried to hasten the kiss, Zach kept the pace slow, but let Chris push as deep as he wanted, fingers stroking firmly over the back of Chris’ neck.

When they finally parted, Zach’s face was wet, and it took Chris a few moments to realize those were his own tears on Zach’s cheeks.  Sniffling ashamedly, he wiped Zach’s face with his thumbs, but Zach just caught his hands and pressed a kiss to each palm.

Chris thought for sure he’d break, kept waiting to collapse into ugly sobs, but the tears remained a slow, steady flow.  Without a word, he rested his head on Zach’s shoulder and Zach put his arms around Chris.  Not speaking, not rubbing his back; just holding him close as the tears ran their course, and then after, until all Chris could feel was Zach’s heartbeat, Zach’s breath. 

This was what he would take with him.  This was what would keep him sane when thoughts of family and the future were too much to bear.  Just Zach’s arms around him, warm and solid.

It couldn’t last, of course.  Eventually, he heard the announcement: _Tributes have one minute to take their places.  One minute_.

Zach had to help lift him up and guide him over to the launch plate that would take him up and into the arena.   Standing on the plate, Chris was looking down into Zach’s eyes, which had gone hard and bright.  “I’ll be here,” he said firmly.  “When you get back, I’ll be right here to patch your gorgeous ass up.”

“I’ll try not to damage it too badly,” Chris said, face actually cracking into a smile.  He wanted Zach to remember him like this: smiling.

“Better not,” Zach mumbled, pressing his face against Chris’ hand.

_Tributes have thirty seconds to take their places._

Chris tried desperately to think of something to say, something to encourage Zach, if it was the last kind act he could do.  But all that he could think were the three words that might break Zach’s heart.  Was it more selfish to say them or to keep them to himself?

In the end, he couldn’t leave them unsaid.  And Zach didn’t look the least bit surprised.

_Fifteen seconds._

Zach had to let go of Chris’ hand as the clear tube slid down around him.  Chris pressed his hand up against the glass and Zach’s came up to match it.

_Ten seconds._

The glass wasn’t quite soundproof, and before the machinery started up that would lift the launch plate, he could just barely hear Zach’s muffled voice returning those same words.

_Five_

The plate started to lift, pushing Chris toward the darkness that would engulf him before he emerged into the arena.

_Four_

Their hands slid away from each other on the glass, but Chris held Zach’s gaze for as long as he could.

_Three_

The last thing Chris saw before the darkness swallowed him were Zach’s burning dark eyes, and a quick nod that told him he could do this.  He could survive.

_Two_

_One_

**Author's Note:**

> Since I practically baited you, I might as well tell you: yes, there will be a sequel. I can’t promise you when, but it’s in the works.


End file.
